What the Sergeant Saw: The St Oswald's Murders
by noenigma
Summary: A story looking back on Service of All the Dead.
1. A Mass Murder

_This story was supposed to come out as a loose parallel to the Lewis story _What the Sergeant Saw: The Sad Case of Allison Bright_, unfortunately it stalled out and left poor Lewis hanging around the vestibule waiting for Morse to arrive and get things moving for quite a long time. Fortunately, our Sergeant Lewis is a patient man…_

_It was also supposed to be another light, nostalgic look back, but stories have their own ideas._

**What the Sergeant Saw: The St. Oswald's Murders**

_Based on _Service of All the Dead _with credit to Colin Dexter and_ _Julian Mitchell_

**Chapter One: A Mass Murder**

Sergeant Robbie Lewis of the Thames Valley CID was on the scene before either Dr. Max DeBryn, the home office pathologist, or Chief Inspector Morse, the senior officer in charge, arrived. That was the usual order of events, especially when the call came on the evening. Such calls would find Lewis at home while Max would be out at some social do and Morse…he'd either be enjoying some choral society's big evening or an opera or—well, Lewis didn't like to admit it, but there were times he was certain Morse finished his glass of Glenfiddich and favorite recording before he slipped into his coat to head out for the murder scene.

Lewis was still new enough to the CID that he viewed each new case with enthusiasm and anticipation. Especially now that he had hooked up with Chief Inspector Morse. Unless it was his night to watch the kids and he had to scramble to find someone to take over for him before he could leave the house, not much slowed him down on his way out the door to a crime scene.

Sometimes, though, when he saw what awaited him when he arrived, he wished he'd dragged his feet or maybe even called off sick. This night was certainly one of them.

A spooky, dreary, old mausoleum of a church, lit by flickering candles and not much else. Its cavernous chambers echoing with the sounds of a brand-new widow weeping and carrying on in a way that should have filled him with pity but instead left him irritated and wishing he could send her away. And a body grotesquely lying in the vestry; an ornate, cross-shaped knife plunged deeply into it with blood seeping darkly from the wound, and the smell of death mingling with the dusty, crypt-like smell of the old church.

He'd attended Sunday school a bit in his younger days back home, but his family had never been overly religious. He and Val were even less so. He probably wouldn't have been all that comfortable in any church, but certainly not in this one. So there was that, and then there was the body. He might not have been a religious sort, but a murder in a church, what was meant to be the house of God…and the murder weapon being what it was…it was all enough to dampen a man's enthusiasm for the job.

The church was huge, but carved up into cramped nooks and crannies full of religious statuary and furnishings that left little enough room for a man to move. Lewis squatted over the body, careful to not disturb the scene in anyway, chewing his pencil and trying not to feel claustrophobic in the close quarters.

When Max finally arrived, he had to squeeze past the sergeant to get a look at the body. "Who it is?" he asked on his way.

"Harry Josephs," Lewis answered. "That's his wife outside," he added though the doctor had probably managed to figure that out for himself with all her caterwauling.

"Widow," Max corrected him absentmindedly as he looked over the dead man. Used to being corrected by Morse, Lewis took the implied criticism quietly. There wasn't any use in defending himself or in trying to keep up. He was a plodder, capable but slow. He wasn't clever or brilliant like Morse nor well educated like Max and the others. He'd made it through school, but it had been a struggle. Bookwork and memorization had not come easily for him; and written work had all too often been a nightmare. He'd left that all behind him with a sigh of relief only to discover that a good deal of police work was much like school. Even more so now that he was working with Morse. The benefits of being partnered with the best detective in the Thames Valley far outweighing the humiliations and irritations of being frequently treated like a frightfully slow schoolboy, Lewis had become quite adept at letting criticisms and corrections roll over him like water off a duck's back.

The difference between wife and widow must have hit Mrs. Josephs about then because her distressing weeping gave way to ear shattering screams. A beat late, as though the sound had gotten off in a horror movie, Morse threw open the door and made his appearance. His welcome arrival quieted the widow's screams and meant the investigation could really get started.

"Always best to throw light on the scene if you can," the chief inspector said, and they all blinked against the sudden brightness of the lights as though God had just pronounced, "Let there be light." Lewis hadn't realized how dark and shadowed the scene had been, and he wondered why the lights hadn't been up for the church service. Seemed an odd way to conduct God's business, what with the whole 'I am the light of the world' thing and all. Of course, this whole situation was odd.

Odd and grotesque as Morse's blanched face and pained expression clearly showed when he glanced down at the dead man. While Max and the rest of the investigative team patiently waited for the questions they knew were already forming in Morse's mind, the chief inspector took a moment to keep his supper down. The questions, when they came, were brief and quiet as though hushed by their surroundings.

The first—"Well, Max?"—was to the pathologist who seemed no more inclined to chattiness; he answered it concisely with, "One very fierce blow. Death instantaneous."

The chief inspector had to almost clamber over the pathologist's back to squeeze past Lewis in order to address his second question—"What happened?"—to the pale, stunned organist who Lewis probably should have shooed further away from the murder scene but hadn't.

The organist, Paul Morris, began to stammer his way to an answer, "Well, nobody actually saw it, but erm..."

"It was right at the end of the service. Mr. Josephs had just brought the collection back here to the vestry," Lewis, who in the normal order of things would have been the recipient for that particular question, cut in.

"There was...a tramp at the service. He even took communion," Morris said. And that bit of news sent Lewis running out to put in the call and start the ball rolling after an elderly vagrant known as Swanny.

He returned in time to hear Morse say, "I shall never understand these religious types."

Max's answer was quick and unsympathetic, "That's because you have no soul, Morse."

"If you were a vicar would you slit open your letters with a cross of Christ?" Morse demanded.

Lewis slipped back to his place at Morse's side as Max said, "It's pretty high, St. Oswald's. Pretty spiky."

"So, that's what they mean by the 'beauty of holiness'," Morse retorted and Max grimaced in return. Lewis chose to ignore their verbal sparring. He knew that the pathologist and detective were actually rather good friends regardless of the terse and often-antagonistic quips the two exchanged when their paths crossed professionally. Still, safest by far to keep his mouth shut, especially when, as now, he had only a vague understanding of just what they were on about.

The crime scene photographer announced, "All finished, Sir."

"Thanks," Morse said. Though the chief inspector was capable of social niceties out amidst the public, he rarely saw the need to mess about with them amongst workmates. Noting that thanks, Lewis thought Morse might be in a more tolerable mood than usual.

If so, it didn't extend to his sergeant. "Lewis, go through his pockets, will you?" Morse asked and walked away before he would have to watch Lewis dig through the dead man's clothing. Lewis would rather have left the task to forensics or Morse himself (not that that was likely to happen), but…well, a job like theirs, someone had to do it.

"Just a minute, Lewis," Max said before the sergeant could get down to it. "Hold this for me." He handed Lewis a plastic evidence bag; Lewis could guess what was coming before the pathologist added, "Close your eyes now." The sergeant couldn't help turning his head slightly away, but he didn't close his eyes. He knew he was better off looking rather than putting himself at the mercy of his mind's eye. It wasn't the sight so much as the sounds and smells that were likely to send him fleeing to the nearest bog if he let them catch him unawares. Better to see them coming.

He held the bag out to receive the murder weapon. It was smaller than it had looked jutting out of Harry Josephs' chest. Smaller and lighter, but it was still…somehow wicked. Too large to be an innocent paper knife, too sharp, too long, too bloody, and far too deadly. Even after the pathologist took the bag from him, Lewis felt as though his hands had been tainted with Josephs' blood. He glanced down at them almost expecting to see them covered in it.

The job frequently brought the detectives into contact with a good deal of blood and other bodily fluids. And, yet, they almost invariably walked away clean; their suits so untouched by the gore that they could wear them again without a cleaning if the thought of where they'd been wasn't too much for their wearers. Scene suits when they came several years later, wouldn't come to protect the cops from the muck and gore they might pick up at the scene, but to protect the scene from the contamination the detectives would carry to it with them.

Even after the advent of crime suits, Lewis would still send his suit in for cleaning after the messiest crime scenes, because he couldn't help feeling tainted from the evil permeating the places of violent death in much the same way as he had felt Joseph's blood on his hands that day in St. Oswald's even though they were spotless.

Little wonder he hadn't been too eager to search the dead man's pockets before and was even less now, but he got to it. And it didn't take him long to lose his squeamishness in the excitement of the job. If, as they were supposing—or at least, as he'd been supposing up to this point. Who knew what flights of fancy were filling the chief inspector's head?—the churchwarden had died surprising a thief after the night's offerings, well, the thief had made a very poor showing of it and a very poor job. For according to the vicar, the offerings could have amounted to no more than a few quid, but there was over 200 pounds still burning a hole in Harry Josephs' pockets.

Before Lewis could decide just what to make of it, Morse was back with the organist and one of the women from the church service. Though Paul Morris had earlier stood in the vestry with them and, surely, if the body was someone other than Harry Josephs he would have said so then, they went through the formal process of identifying the body. It was somewhat unusual to show the body in situ to family and friends, but Morse must have decided that as they were all standing about anyway, there was no need to waste time.

Even though it meant there were two shaken, pale friends to weakly say, "Yes, that's Harry Josephs," Lewis was glad Morse had chosen them for the purpose and not the overwrought widow. It was difficult enough for the woman…what was her name? Ruth Rawlinson. Yes, that was it. Difficult enough for Miss Rawlinson to have to view the body. Lewis wouldn't have liked at all to be there to see Mrs. Josephs do the same. As hard as it was for her, Miss Rawlinson did the job, and Morse even seemed to recognize what it had cost her. He was gentle and supportive, even placing a comforting hand on her shoulder as he thanked her and sent her on her way. Morse could be that way with women sometimes Lewis knew. Those that didn't get his dander up but seemed a bit vulnerable like Miss Rawlinson. They triggered Morse's softer side.

Lewis wasn't so lucky in that regard either. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was just that sort of a night.

Watching the body being wheeled out of the church, the sergeant innocently told Morse, "It all seems pretty straightforward."

Morse growled back at him, "Straightforward perhaps, but pretty?" Lewis knew the chief inspector was right enough there even if he was nitpicking. There was nothing pretty about any murder, and this one was most decidedly not the exception.

Later, speaking of the vicar, Lewis mentioned, "Nasty for him, all this."

And got, "Nasty, Lewis? Nasty?" from Morse.

A bit later his righteous indignation over the futility of the crime came out in a less than diplomatic term for their murderer, and once again drew Morse's ire. "Lewis, you're in church!" Like Morse was any more religious minded than he was himself.

And then, Lewis was the one saddled with dragging the old Welsh tramp into the station for safekeeping in the hopes he'd eventually sober up enough to help them suss out their chief suspect. The man was so far gone he didn't know his own name let alone his fellow drunks'. Disgusted, Morse declared there was nothing more they could do that evening and went home to his music and his whisky. Which left Lewis the malodorous task of delivering Taffy to the duty sergeant before he could head off home himself.

Fortunately for him, his bad luck with Morse didn't carry over to his wife. She welcomed him home with a forgiving hug and kiss though he'd kept her from her night out with the girls when he'd been called away. She fried him up a late supper of eggs and chips while he told her of his evening.

"He's a right proper get when he wants to be," Lewis told her as she slid his plate in front of him.

She laughed and said, "And yet, you wouldn't have it any other way, now, would you?"

He scowled over at her a moment but then grinned. "Nah…I suppose you're right, Pet," he said. "Morse is Morse and there's nothing for it. I've had worse off of him and for all of that…he's still the best there is. I'll stick with him." And with that he tucked happily into his chips.


	2. Surprising Developments

**Chapter Two : Surprising Developments**

The next day started off with more of the same. Lewis got stuck with the busywork at the station while Morse went off conducting the investigation without him. The sergeant hated days like that. To make matters worse, the day's duty sergeant wasn't the most capable of men, and Lewis spent a good deal of the morning doing Sergeant Kall's job as well as his own. So much so that he almost missed the chief inspector when he finally returned to the station.

He hustled down the hall and stuck his head in the door to give Morse his report, "Still no sign of this Swanny, Sir. But the old, Welsh tramp thinks his name used to be Swanpole."

"Swanny, Swanpole, he may have nothing to do with it." Morse told him. "Josephs was dead before the knife went in."

"What?" Lewis asked. He was no pathologist, but with that amount of blood…it was hard to believe the stabbing had been postmortem.

"Max says there was enough morphine in his stomach to kill an elephant," Morse explained. They'd rushed off then to hear firsthand what Max made of this surprising development. As usual, that was easier said than done. Morse's exasperation with having to pull each piece of information bit by bit out of the pathologist's mouth was all part of the fun as far as Max was concerned. Morse was clever enough to know it but not controlled enough to stop from playing into Max's hand. Inevitably, they'd get their information but Morse's ego and patience (what he had of it) paid dearly for it.

The pathologist was still chuckling at Morse's expense when they left the mortuary with their hard-won knowledge that the dose of morphine given to Josephs (mixed in wine) had been more than enough to lay him out in less than a minute and kill him in six.

"It must have been during the service then," Lewis mused out loud.

"Thank you, Lewis. I had got that far."

Lewis ignored the chief inspector's sarcasm as there wasn't anything he could do about it at any rate.

"What I don't understand is why anybody should want to kill him twice. Do you think it was some sort of a ritual?"

"All church services are rituals, Lewis," Morse said in his condescending, lecturing tone.

"Yeah, but I mean like a black mass. There was a big piece in the Sunday papers about black masses," Lewis said though he knew it was a mistake immediately. Morse had a very low opinion of _the Sun_ and the folks, like Lewis, who read it. If they didn't print it in the _Times_ Morse didn't reckon it was worth reading or discussing.

"Oh, yes? You think the Reverend Lionel Pawlen was indulging in orgies on the altar with Miss Rawlinson and Mrs. Josephs?" Morse questioned, and Lewis, not being a saint (though there were those who said he must be to put up with Morse) had trouble not taking offense. He was saved from having to speak up in his own defense and almost certainly ending up looking even more foolish in Morse's eyes because, as occasionally happened, something the sergeant had said sat Morse's mind to working.

And once Morse's mind went to work, he dropped his snide, mocking manner and became the great detective Lewis was so proud and pleased to be working with.

As though the last bit of their conversation had never happened, Morse said, "Of course he may not have been killed twice."

"But he was," Lewis protested. As frequently happened, he wasn't keeping up with Morse's musings. That was ok though, because with Morse on a roll, he was now safe in asking his questions without fear of ridicule.

"I mean by the same person," Morse said as they reached his Jag. He'd parked it in the spot reserved for the ambulance, and there was a less than polite note stuck to the windshield. Lewis who'd tried to point out the 'No Parking" sign when they'd arrived pretended not to see Morse crumple and toss the note into the back seat. If he'd been the sort to say 'I told you so' he would have worn out the phrase in the time he'd worked with Morse.

Fortunately, he wasn't. He was far more interested in the mental puzzle Morse had sat before him. "One person slipped him the morphine, you mean, and another stabbed him, acting separately?" he asked.

"Possibly," Morse who was totally unfazed by the note or the scowling security man glaring at him answered. "The left hand not knowing what the right was doing. "

"Isn't that pretty long odds, Sir?" Lewis asked.

Pulling out of the no-parking spot, Morse waved at the scowling security man and said, "Very long odds, indeed. Speaking of odds, I had a talk with Miss Rawlinson…not only was Harry Josephs a gambler as we knew from the betting slips in his pocket, but there's a very good chance the funds he was betting were coming right out of the offering plate at St. Oswald's."

Lewis whistled his surprise at this bit of news, and Morse went on, "I know. Right from the hand of God as it were—little wonder one of them killed him."

"Sir? I thought it was this Swanpole fellow who'd killed him. What do you mean it was one of them?"

"Well, remember, there were two killers," Morse said as though their just having discussed the theory made it not only plausible (a point his sergeant was still less than certain about) but also fact. It had taken Lewis more than a few cases with Morse before he understood that the chief inspector took up and discarded theories as it pleased him…with or without any basis in reality. Sooner or later, Morse would undoubtedly land on the right one, and the facts, when they came, would prove he'd hit upon the winner. He'd be exultant and smug in it; the discarded theories forgotten as though they'd never been…like losing betting slips fluttering on the ground while the one winner was held high and triumphant.

But, not like Harry Josephs 'winner' that they'd presumed had put those 200 quid in his trouser pocket; because Josephs had had no winner the day he died. Nor, as the rather interesting specimen of young womanhood manning the window at the betting shop informed them, had he much in the past.

"Pretty much a loser all around, Harry Josephs," Lewis remarked as they left the shop. It was a sad commentary on a man's life, an epitaph Lewis would not have liked to have etched into his gravestone.

"So, where did the 200 quid come from?" Morse mused.

"Somewhere," Lewis said shrugging his utter inability to give Morse the answer for which he was looking.

"Thanks," Morse said. If either of them had been sincere, it and the one he'd gotten earlier would surely have set some sort of record. Two thanks on a single case…ahh, well, he wasn't on the job for thanks anyway. The satisfaction he got working alongside Morse more than made up for things like unsaid thanks. Besides which, Chief Inspector Bell had been even less likely to utter a word of appreciation. Perhaps, all CID inspectors wiped the word from their everyday vocabulary upon promotion.


	3. Abounding Questions

**Abounding Questions with No Answer in Sight**

"We need inspiration, Lewis," Morse said. _Bit early even for him_, Lewis thought. It wasn't anywhere near time. But, for once Morse hadn't been thinking of liquid inspiration. Slipping into a seat at St. Oswald's, its empty, echoing chambers from the evening before now ringing with the rising notes of music and its pews full of the faithful, Lewis wished Morse had been. Bad enough to come in late as they had, and then there was the fact that neither of them knew the order of the service so they were left standing when everyone else sat and sitting when they all stood. And Morse making not quite hushed-enough comments throughout. They'd stuck out like two sore thumbs long before something had attracted Morse's attention and necessitated them trodding on the parishioners' toes as they moved to a better vantage point.

Still, the discomfort was more than worth it to discover that the last one to drink out of the cup was the churchwarden. Had to be the vicar then, didn't it? Slipping Josephs the mickey as part of the mass and then ritualizing away the evidence.

"It must have been Pawlen. Nobody else could have put the stuff in the wine," he said to Morse as they moved with the parishioners out of the church and into the sun-dappled churchyard.

"How did he do it without killing everyone else?" Morse asked, and then chuckled at his own wit when he added, "And, where's his swizzle stick to mix it up?"

'He doesn't need one. He's crafty. He arranges it so the wine runs out just before Josephs...so he has to go get some more, already poisoned," Lewis said, coming up with the idea as he went. He couldn't keep up with Morse, and more times than not Morse shot down what Lewis had to say as twaddle, but he'd found that by musing aloud he could often spark Morse's own ideas.

Lewis suspected it was why the chief inspector had taken him on as his sergeant. Morse could have replaced him easily enough with one of the graduate-level DS's who would have the education and cleverness to do for Morse which Lewis sadly knew he himself lacked. Lewis might at times go home and have a grumble to the wife about Morse and his ways, and sometimes, he might resent the long hours and everything else that working with a man like Morse entailed, but he never once forgot what a privilege it was as well. If throwing out ideas kept him where he wanted to be…he was prepared to put up with being put down. And just as well. "He puts that in the cup—" he went on, but Morse was, as always, ready to lecture his sergeant on the proper use of the language.

"Chalice. The word is 'chalice', Lewis," he said as though Lewis was a rather dense schoolboy not learning his lessons. But, he sounded more introspective when he finished with, "A poisoned chalice, indeed."

"What?" Lewis asked. And that was the thing. A graduate-entry bloke stood a chance of knowing what that poisoned chalice was all about, but Lewis…hadn't a clue and so had nothing to offer Morse in order to keep his thoughts flowing.

"Never mind," Morse said. Lewis thought he could detect disappointment in the inspector's voice. He should have known what that poisoned chalice was about, obviously. Morse was in a forgiving mood, as it were. "You were being quite intelligent there," he said, and there was no doubt that he meant the patronizing words as a compliment and not the insult they sounded. "Go on," he prompted.

"Well, that's it really. He gives Josephs the uh...the chalice."

"From which he, and he alone, then has to drink, thus murdering himself, as well as Josephs. Very clever." Though Morse's words again sounded condemning, Lewis could tell that this time they weren't. At least, not of Lewis. The chief inspector was still contemplating his theory, still trying to fit it altogether. Morse might very well have meant to sound encouraging and thoughtful. He could be that way. Saying things that could cut a man to the quick if he took them to heart, while all the time thinking he was being pleasant and inoffensive. Learning to read Morse had been almost a full-time job when he'd first hooked up with the chief inspector. However, Lewis had always been a quick study when it came to reading people, and he'd eventually gotten the hang of it. For the most part.

"No, he only pretends to drink. Then he wipes the rest of the stuff away, like we just saw," Lewis suggested.

Morse sighed. "I don't know...it's so elaborate."

"Well, the whole thing's elaborate. A knife and the poison…of course, if we only knew why he'd done it—"

"Who?" Morse asked as though he expected Lewis to come out and name their killer.

"Whoever did do it."

Slightly disgruntled, as if he were disappointed Lewis hadn't managed to name a name, Morse said, "Well, one person didn't do it. No, this is a mass murder, Lewis. Obviously. A high mass murder." Morse chuckled and looked at Lewis to make sure he didn't miss his joke. Lewis gave him a wry acknowledgment just so the chief inspector knew he wasn't that off the ball. But neither of them were yet on to the truth of that statement…a mass murder indeed.

"Come on," Morse had told him, and they'd went about interviewing Reverend Pawlen again. Seen him being perhaps a little too intimate with Peter Morris, Paul Morris' young son, which sparked Morse's theory about choirboy scandals which would eventually lead them to that _why_ the murder had been committed that Lewis had been worrying over. And they'd heard him speak what soon enough they would know had been nothing but sanctimonious lies, or taken another way, his confession: _It's a terrible thing to take the sacrament with murder in your heart. My one consolation in this messy business is that Harry died in a state of grace._

Well, they would learn in the end that it had been both lies and confession. If what they'd been told had been the truth, the vicar himself would have been the one to take—and perform the service of it—the sacrament with murder in his heart. And, if that had been true, well…it would have consoled him a bit that the murder victim died in what he considered good stead with his maker, wouldn't it? Lies then, certainly, but also a confession of sorts.

They had a long way yet to go before they'd know that though. Even so, Morse was convinced Pawlen was their man by the time they drove away from St. Oswald's. He presented his choirboy theory to Lewis as though it had sprung up full-grown the instant he'd seen Pawlen's hand on Peter Morris' head. Only, of course, he didn't present it as theory. To hear him tell it, it was established fact that Pawlen fancied his choirboys; Josephs had somehow known; attempted to blackmail the vicar; and so had had to die.

Lewis was taxed with finding out from the bank if Josephs had had a bank account of his own besides the joint account he had with Mrs. Josephs.

"See if that's how he financed his betting," Morse told him as he dropped him off in front of the bank.

"They're not allowed to tell us those sort of things, Sir…in any case, I don't see how—" he started to say but Morse cut him off.

"It's all right, Lewis. The manager drinks in my pub." Sadly enough, Morse was right. Pub connections apparently overrode laws and regulations of banking. The manager was only too happy to tell him anything he wanted to know once Lewis had introduced himself and mentioned Morse's name. It didn't take him long to learn what Morse wanted.

And then he got himself over to Paul Morris' house to see what he could learn there. And that was a good deal more than he'd been prepared to learn. A dedicated family man himself, Lewis took a very dim view on adultery. He'd thought better of Harry Josephs' weeping widow. No wonder her carrying on the night of Josephs' murder had his teeth on edge. If she'd been so cut up over her husband's death—he was still sputtering his outrage when he made his report to Morse later that evening.

"She'd got nothing on underneath. I could see."

"Lucky you," Morse said. Lewis didn't see the humour in the situation; he pushed on until Morse finally said, "I get the picture, Lewis. What did you learn at the bank?"

"Oh, you were dead right there. Pawlen's been paying Harry Josephs 500 quid a month for the last five months. A special account. It must be blackmail, like you said."

Oddly, hearing he was right didn't seem to please the chief inspector all that much. He agreed the whole blackmail theory must be right as he moved around his front room, but he hardly sounded triumphant. He pulled a small paperback book from a shelf and flipped through it as he said, "But what about the tramp, Lewis? Where is the tramp?"

"I don't know."

Morse threw him a disgusted look and snarled, "Don't keep saying that!" He tossed the book on top of the shelf he'd pulled it from and said, "Come on. I need a beer." Which was as close as Lewis was going to get to a 'sorry' for being snarled at. Good enough though. It told him that Morse wasn't frustrated with him or disappointed in what he'd brought him. It was the missing piece about the tramp that had him snarly not the incompetence of his sergeant.

Lewis had some missing pieces of his own that had been bothering him. The dose of morphine had been so large it would have taken a great deal of wine to dissolve it all? Morse proposed that Josephs always emptied it so Pawlen had known he was safe there. Lewis hadn't thought of that, but it would fit. His other question, the same one he'd asked already and pondered all day—why kill him twice? Morse threw out several possible explanations for that one, but none of them slipped into place.

"And the tramp?"

"I just asked that question, Lewis," Morse said as they finally arrived at the pub.

"But suppose he is Pawlen's brother like Taffy had heard?"

"I'm not supposing anything until I've had at least two pints of beer," Morse told him. And then he added the inevitable, "It's your round, Lewis."

"It's always my round."

He hadn't meant it to upset Morse, but before he could get the drinks Morse said, "Then it's your lucky day. I've just gone off the beer." He'd turned then and hurried out of the pub, and it had been all Lewis could do to keep up with him.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

If Morse was upset about his comment, he didn't admit it. "I've decided to have an early night…all those questions you were asking, Lewis, we'll try them on the Reverend Pawlen in the morning."


	4. A Fall from the Tower

**A Fall From the Tower**

For all the sergeant was ever to know, his comment might have sent Morse barreling out of the pub the night before without so much as a swallow of beer. (It hadn't though. That was up to Miss Rawlinson and the man with whom she was drinking and laughing. And if only Morse hadn't felt an irrational but overriding hurt in seeing her with another man when he would have happily been the one buying her rounds, they might have taken the opportunity to push forward the investigation in saying 'hello' and seeing what they could stir up…and in so doing met their murder victim, alive and well, before he'd gone off to produce a few more victims of his own.)

What Lewis would always know for certain was that the questions they proposed to the Reverend Pawlen that next morning had led the man to climb the steps to the top of the church and throw himself off its roof. The very mention that they wanted to question him about his brother was all it took. If only they'd realized how terribly the idea had affected the man; if only Morse hadn't been a gentleman and agreed to give the vicar time to change out of his robes before taking him down to the station…if only wishes were horses.

Lewis couldn't blame Morse. It wasn't like they had suspected the vicar was suicidal or that he'd do a runner. Still…Lewis had tried to keep his eye on the man, just in case. That was how it was supposed to be done after all. He'd been concerned when he realized he'd lost sight of Pawlen, but he hadn't thought—not that. Most definitely not that. He'd not expected to look up and see a body plummeting down towards where the chief inspector and Miss Rawlinson stood chitchatting. Never that. His football days had come in handy then; he'd taken both Morse and Miss Rawlinson out of danger with a flying tackle. Pawlen, his body sprawled grotesquely like a parody of the crucified Christ, had landed squarely on Miss Rawlinson's bike. Lewis shuddered to think what would have happened if he'd gone running off to look for the vicar like he'd been tempted to do.

There was no need for heroics. The man was dead and there was nothing to be done for him. Morse held the weeping Miss Rawlinson and gave her what comfort he could while Lewis called it in and secured the scene. It was far too little, far too late. Lewis was sick at heart and just wanted to go home, crawl into his wife's arms, and hold her for all he was worth.

They dealt with Death on an all too-frequent basis, but even when the body was still warm when they arrived, they didn't usually brush against him when he passed. And he didn't usually point a bony finger their way accusing them for his day's work. Lewis felt much too shaken by the encounter as well as that pointing finger to feel capable of working.

Morse must have felt the same. At some point, he tapped Lewis on the shoulder and said, "I'm taking Miss Rawlinson home. Then I'm going home myself. We'll need to find out about the Pawlen brothers… check that school Pawlen went to as a boy…" he fumbled around for a name, but it wasn't surprising he couldn't come up with it in the circumstances, "…it's in my notes."

Lewis watched Morse quietly usher Miss Rawlinson to his car and wondered if the chief inspector was up to driving. He hated to think of the inspector going home to his empty flat after such a morning, but Lewis was hardly in a position to stop him. Before he could dig up what he could on the vicar and his brother there was still the scene processing to complete, pages and pages of paperwork to be filled out, and the chief superintendent would want briefed. He'd have to trust the chief inspector to look after himself.

It wasn't an easy day, but the sergeant slugged through. He worked hard to always make sure his work was satisfactory and was just a bit surprised and… hurt? miffed? disappointed maybe…when Morse expressed shock at finding him at his door later that afternoon.

"What are you doing here?" Morse demanded as though he'd thought Lewis would be sloughing off and hadn't expected to hear from him at all that day.

"I thought you wanted to know about the school," he said.

Morse, somber and looking worse for his time off than not, shook his head sadly and said, "Lewis. It could have waited, you know. Until tomorrow. "

"I'm sorry, Sir," Lewis began, "I just thought—"

"Yes, you did, and I didn't. Well, you might as well tell me now that you're here, and then…it's off you go. Home."

Not quite sure what exactly he'd done to upset the chief inspector, Lewis gave Morse a brief report and went home.


	5. Unravelling

**Unraveling**

Val was surprised to find him home so early. She'd heard on the telly there'd been another death at St. Oswald's and thought she'd be lucky if she saw him before midnight. She was suitably horrified when he told her what had happened that morning. By then he'd managed to push the intensity of it away from his mind, and his account was subdued, emotionless, and brief. She knew just from that it had been bad…worse than bad.

He was usually an animated storyteller, capable of entertaining the kids for long stretches at a time with his stories. And she loved listening to him natter on whenever she got the opportunity. Even his stories of work and the horrors he saw there were enthralling. Usually. It was when they weren't that she knew the price her husband paid to do his job. And when he went completely quiet…that was when she didn't want to know the costs.

The Thames Valley Police Department Wives Association, a moniker so unwieldy there wasn't even an acronym for it, occasionally held workshops and lectures on how best to help and support cops dealing with some of the harder aspects of the job. Val had attended several of them, and she wouldn't have said they were all worthless or a waste of her time. But, none of them had made it any easier for her to know what to do when her husband came home this way.

She knew what to do when he arrived at the door white, shaky, and looking nothing if not shell-shocked. She'd learned that very quickly in her husband's career and though thankfully it was not something she had to practice very often, she had never forgotten it.

_She'd been frightened when the banging had started. Actually even before. It was Robbie's first night on the street, the first night she'd stayed all alone in their tiny flat. They'd only just married, only just moved to the small college town where she'd won her scholarship and Robbie had gotten on as a PC down at the local nick. She hadn't had time to meet anyone, barely knew her way to the shops and back. She'd been lying there, sleepless and feeling very frightened, very alone, very much like running home to Oxford even before the banging had started._

"_Mrs. Lewis? Valerie? It's Inspector Graves…please open the door," the inspector had called and that had sent her running to the door in just her gown and bare feet because it was Robbie's first night on the street and the inspector had taken him out to teach him the ropes and if something had happened to him…how could she bear it? What would she do? She'd thrown the door open to find the inspector and Robbie both on the threshold. Robbie was shaking, white, and there was blood on his clothes, on_ him_, and at the sight of him, she felt just as shaken, just as white._

"_He's all right!" Graves had assured her quickly. Probably afraid he was about to have both the Lewis' flat on the floor. "The blood's not his, lass—it's the shock that's got him now that it's over. Come on now, lad…let's get you into a nice, warm bath," he'd told Robbie as he pushed his way down the hall towards where he must have guessed the bath would be. To her he had said, "Tea. Hot and strong and here…" he'd fumbled about in his great coat and pulled out a half-full bottle of brandy. Thrusting it out to her, he had said, "a good, big dollop…as quick as you like." She'd run to the kitchen to do as he'd ordered, and he'd shifted Robbie._

_When she'd come running back with the tea, the inspector had pushed himself up from the door where he'd been leaning and taken the cup from her. Belatedly, she'd thought she should have made him a cup as well, but it had been too late then. He'd sniffed it and nodded his head in satisfaction. "Keep these coming, one right after the other, until he sleeps. And when he wakes…maybe then as well. We'll just have to let him show his mettle. Once the bottle's empty though…that's the end of it, you understand? If he's not past it by then, he'll have to pay the piper without its help, he will. _

"_Now maybe he'll talk and maybe he won't and it's not for you to be making him if that's not how he's made. Every man's got his own way, and it's best if he's allowed to find it on his own. And he's not to be left alone until he's past the worst of it…I'll be by later in the day to see where we're at. It was a bad night's work and him naught but a lad." He'd shaken his head sadly, and he'd look old and worn-out though she'd known he wasn't as old as her father. She'd shivered thinking that the job could easily do the same to her Robbie._

_And then he'd raised his head and searched her face as though measuring her up for the job before he'd said, "Your lad's become a man tonight, and he's made a good job of it, but if he's to survive it, he'll need you to grow up as well." He'd held the tea out to her and nodded his head at the door. "Go on into him then, he'll be a needing you." He picked up a bundle of clothes that she'd failed to see at his feet and said, "I'll take these bloody things home for me wife to wash tonight, but it will be up to you the next time." And then he'd left her with those words 'next time' ringing in her ears, and the tea so hot she could feel it through the cup, and her Robbie behind that closed door needing her to grow up, and she was so much more afraid as she pulled the latch than she'd ever been before…_

She'd had to read in the papers what Robbie had gone through that night for he'd never uttered one word about it. Not that night and not in the years since. The Wives Association didn't advocate much if any of the advice Inspector Graves had given her; in fact, they'd never quite gotten around to addressing the kind of state Robbie had come home in that night. Still, she knew first-hand that it did the trick. And it worked just as well on the nights he came home totally quiet. She knew then to heat the kettle and send the kids off to stay at her mum's.

It was, she thought, a hazard of the job. That shut-down of all emotions because no matter how bad it had been there was always the scene to secure, statements to take, reports to file, and a hundred other things that had to be done. And none of it going to be done by a man reeling from whatever he'd just seen or experienced. So. It all had to be pushed to the side, fought back, walled off, and ignored in order to get through the rest of the day.

But, when the day was done…sometimes those walls had hardened so hard that they couldn't be lowered, sealing behind them a festering mess that could destroy a man from the inside out. Some days the walls came down slowly, imperceptibly letting out the horrors and anguish they'd contained in minute increments that hardly made a ripple. Or they didn't come down at all, but held it all in waiting for a day Valerie very much hoped would never arrive. Other days though, they seemed secure enough, but just when a wife decided her husband was all right after all, just tired…they came tumbling down. Crashing more like. And the floodwaters that rushed out after their fall…could carry them all away if she weren't careful.

And who could tell which it would be. Did he need a night with the kids underfoot, laughing and bringing him books to read and shoes to tie and keeping him from slipping farther and farther away from them all? Or did he need her to scramble and find something to keep them out of his hair…maybe get them out of the house altogether, because if what he was clamping off behind that wall was bad enough, things could progress very quickly to tea and brandy and all that came with it.

Did he need her brightly describing her day and musing over shades of blue for the bathroom redo or did he need her just to sit quietly beside him with her hand over his? Was this a night he'd slowly and quietly and all on his own come to terms with whatever it was so that by the time they'd tucked the kids up into bed he'd be more or less his old, laughing self? Or was this a flood night?

And why couldn't he have decided when he was no bigger than their Lynn that it was a postman he wanted to be? What had ever made her believe that she was cut out to be a policeman's wife?

Lewis, sitting across from his wife at their dinner table, wasn't so far gone that he didn't know he was worrying her. She always seemed to know when he came home with something troubling him, always seemed to know just the thing to do and say to make it all right. Or, in cases like this, at least bearable. He looked over at her, and knew he was a lucky man. A very lucky man. Harry Josephs might have 'Pretty much a loser' as his epitaph, but Robbie Lewis' could well read 'The luckiest of men'. He reached out and took her hand and said softly, "You're all I need, Lass. Don't ever leave me."

"No, Robbie. Never," she promised.


	6. A Spiraling Body Count

**A Spiraling Body Count**

By morning, he felt ready to face whatever else the case might be likely to throw at him. It was just as well for that was the day things spiraled horribly out of control.

It had seemed a fine sort of day at the start. The interview with the Pawlen brothers' old schoolmaster had went all right even though Morse had feared Dr. Starkie might be too old to remember much of any use. No worries there. His mind was still as sharp as a tack even if it did wander about a fair bit. Peacocks and peahens and the meaning of names, Morse admirably holding onto his patience, and Lewis trying to keep a straight face. They'd come away knowing enough about the Pawlen brothers to make the late Reverend Pawlen more than a prime suspect.

That was a good deal more than they found at either Paul Morris' or the weeping widow's to Morse's exasperation. And, it was much, much better than what they found at the scene of the crime after Lewis had managed to open up the massive, wooden door at St. Oswald's and they'd climbed the steps to the tower.

Lewis had not been eager to take that climb following Lionel Pawlen's footsteps from the day before. And he thought, when he'd looked at Morse and asked if he wanted to go up the tower, that the chief inspector was no more eager. By the time they'd reached the bells and pushed on towards the top, he'd decided Morse's reluctance had more to do with the climb itself. It was a struggle for the older man.

In the end, Morse pressed himself against the wall and motioned Lewis to pass on. "Go ahead," he panted. "I need a breather." Lewis was happy to do so. The stairwell was a tight fit for a tall man; that, along with his unwelcome thoughts of Pawlen making his way up through it the day before, made him more than glad to duck out the small door at the top. The view that greeted him was more than worth the climb.

"You can nearly see Scotland!" he called back to Morse. A jagged-edged balustrade surrounded the tower roof making it, as far as Lewis was concerned, perfectly safe to amble up and down the sloped surface of the roof itself to admire the sights from all sides.

Morse muttered, "What did I come up here for?"

"The view!" Lewis answered before he turned and saw that Morse wasn't enjoying the view. He'd come out of the door and was now standing with his back pressed tightly against the high wall behind him and his eyes were most definitely not on the view.

"You all right?" Lewis called over his shoulder as he made his way once more up and down the slope wondering if he might be able to spot his own rooftop from the right vantage point.

"Fine. Fine. Just not as fit as I should be, that's all," Morse answered. Lewis took him at his word even though looking back at it he would realize that the chief inspector hadn't sounded all that convincing.

"It's the beer," he said offhandedly.

"Shut up about the beer!" And that was enough to finally get Lewis' attention. Morse grumbled and grouched through his days in a way that Lewis had learned not only to expect but also to regard almost fondly. In most cases, it meant nothing at all; just the way Morse was in the habit of carrying on. This, however, didn't sound like his boss' habitual disgruntlement with the world in general.

He paused and asked, "What's the matter?"

"I'm scared of bloody heights, you stupid sod!" Morse hollered at him. _Nothing to get too worked up about then_, Lewis thought. Still, just in case it would help Morse feel a bit more comfortable, Lewis changed his direction and came across to look out over the balustrade closest to where Morse stood pressed against the side of the wall that rose above their heads. That would have to do or he'd have Morse grumbling about being coddled.

Lewis, gamboling around the rooftop like a mountain goat, had most decidedly never felt even the slightest hint of fear as far as heights were concerned. Therefore, he didn't take Morse's problem all that seriously though he did recall having a great-auntie who had the same trouble…what was it she'd done when—his thoughts quite abruptly ended there when he happened to look down onto the roof of the building next.

"Sir," he said and something must have sounded in his voice.

"What is it?" Morse asked from where he was still very much glued to the wall.

Looking down at Paul Morris' battered, cold, and quite dead body, Lewis knew that Morse would have to see for himself before it was all said and done. Reluctantly Morse scuttled around the edge of the corner and then was forced to move down the slope to reach Lewis. Trying to decide if Morris had misjudged the jump or if his dead body had landed right where his killer had intended, Lewis didn't think to offer Morse a hand.

Morse was left to skitter awkwardly and helplessly down and around Lewis. He reached out and grabbed Lewis' arm to slow his descent before coming to a stop against the balustrade. Lewis was aware of Morse there beside him surveying the scene, but he didn't spare him a glance. Therefore, when there was a clatter, and he looked over to see what it was about, he was quite surprised to see Morse out cold on the rooftop.

Rather belatedly realizing that the chief inspector's fear of heights had been something to worry about after all, Lewis rushed to Morse's side.

"Sir!' he called as he loosened Morse's tie and wondered just how he was going to get the chief inspector down those stairs when Morse had almost been unable to get himself up them. He couldn't very well leave the poor man while he ran down and put in a call for backup. Well, he could. But he wouldn't want to. What if Morse woke up to find himself alone and flat out on the roof? That surely wouldn't be good for him in the state he already was. And…well, it would do Morse no good if word of this got around the station.

"Sir!" Could he put Morse over his back and carry him down? Possibly. But it had been a long way up and quite steep and the chief inspector was not the thinnest of sorts. He thought he probably could do it if the building was on fire or the like, but he wouldn't like to have to give it a go.

Thankfully, there was a groan then from Morse. His eyes opened and blinked up at Lewis.

"It's all right, Sir. Just the vertigo, I expect. You'll be right as rain in a minute."

Morse gingerly sat up and shook his head. He looked sheepishly at Lewis and said, "If one word of—"

"No, Sir," Lewis assured him shocked Morse thought he needed to mention it. "But…if you could just sit there a bit, Sir, while I run down and call…" he motioned his head vaguely in the direction where the body still lay.

Morse swallowed and nodded his agreement. Lewis headed down at a run. Faintly, he heard Morse's voice calling after him, "Don't be long." No. He wouldn't do that to the man.

He'd managed to talk the chief inspector off the roof before Max and the others made their appearance. Morse seemed a bit shaken, perhaps, but right enough. No one would ever guess what had just happened, and, as Lewis would never breathe a word of it to anyone, they'd never know either.

Max was in fine form, giving the body a quick look over and muttering, "I don't know why they let Morse stay on this case. It's a murder a minute," in a voice meant to reach both Lewis and the chief inspector. And so, not a misjudged jump, but another murder. Lewis took a minute to contemplate that.

Morse understood the implications immediately. "Lewis, see if they've found the boy yet," he told his sergeant.

"What boy?" Max demanded.

Morse's voice was quiet when he answered, "He has a twelve-year-old son...or at least I hope so."

About then, Miss Rawlinson arrived. Lewis reckoned she'd had quite the week of it. What with Harry Josephs, and the vicar, and now Paul Morris. The evidence clerk back at the nick must think they'd hired a professional identifier with her name appearing again and again on the books. He took her bicycle from her—and how she could ride one after the vicar, he didn't know—and directed her to Morse.

There was a voice calling, "Sir!" and he received the discouraging news that Peter Morris was nowhere to be found. Not the sort of news he'd hoped to be able to pass on. Leaving Miss Rawlinson's bike against a tree, he located Morse. The chief inspector was talking quietly to Miss Rawlinson. Their heads close together and their voices low, there was something intimate about their encounter even before Morse put a hand on her shoulder. Ah, so, that's the way it was then? He might have guessed. Morse had been to see her more than once in the course of the investigation, always on his own…Morse and women.

Lewis could see from the look on Max's face that he was thinking much the same thing. Exchanging knowing looks with the pathologist, Lewis grinned. His grin didn't last long. Miss Rawlinson looked at the body, said the words, and then almost collapsed in Morse's arms. Poor woman.

By the time Morse had her sorted and Chief Superintendent Bell briefed and temporarily placated, there was still no sign of Peter Morris. But Miss Rawlinson had an idea where Mrs. Josephs might have gotten herself off to so at least they had that.

Only they didn't. Because by the time they could track her down in Marlow, Mrs. Josephs would be floating down the Thames in a borrowed boat very much dead. And before they'd learn that, there was the boy to find.

Lewis was yawning over some telly program of Val's, wondering where else they could look for Peter Morris, and pondering over the case when Morse rang the door and offered to buy him a drink. Well, why not? The kids were tucked up, and he wasn't fit company for Val brooding over the case as he was. He gave her a quick goodbye kiss and grabbed his windcheater. He'd had some thoughts he wanted to discuss with Morse anyway.

"I was thinking to myself—" he began once they had their beers in front of them. (Morse finding himself without any money, it was Lewis that had brought them in after all.)

"Night thoughts are bred of loneliness and depression, Lewis. Ignore them," Morse advised him.

Lewis scratched his head over that, a quote most like. From someone Lewis had never heard of. "I was thinking there might be something in what you were saying."

"I doubt it," Morse commented, and Lewis thought maybe that depression line was Morse's after all. After Lewis had gone on to explain his thoughts anyway, Morse said, "In order to think about that, Lewis, I shall have to have another pint." In calling for that pint, Morse sent the pub landlord scurrying down to the cellar for another cask. And it was the thought of the cellar that sent them back to St. Oswald's once again.

And there he was, a twelve-year-old boy, buried under a forgotten pile of coke in the vault below the church.

Before they'd finished with all that finding Peter Morris under that pile of coke entailed, the call had come in informing them that Mrs. Josephs was also dead. They'd started out the day with two dead and finished it with five. It was all too much.


	7. Coming Apart at the Seams

**Coming Apart at the Seams**

He was home, then, and well past time he ought to have been, Val thought as she watched her husband climb slowly out of Morse's car. He'd called and told her the drink with Morse had, as not infrequently happened, turned into something more and not to wait up for him as there was something they needed to check and who knew where they'd go from there? He'd sounded up for a good long night of sleuthing then, but now…he looked old and worn out. She shivered as she saw him.

It was happening, wasn't it? The job he loved was wearing him away just as she had feared. Some days she thought she hated it. Some days it was almost more than she could bear to see. Some days she came close to begging him to turn in his papers and leave it all behind. She shook her head at her maudlin thoughts. _Should have listened to him, Val,_ she told herself. _Gone on to sleep and not be standing here staring out at him thinking frighteningly depressing night thoughts. _Why shouldn't he be tired? It was gone twelve, and he'd had one long day after another all week.

He came through the door then; she turned to him with a welcome-home smile brightening her face so he wouldn't have to come home to an unhappy, nagging wife. "Tea's hot if you'd like a cuppa before bed," she'd intended to say instead of the, "This has got to stop, Robbie," that was clamouring to get out. She'd even opened her mouth to say it. And then she saw him.

"Oh, Robbie," she murmured instead and gathered him into her arms. The CID officer who had climbed out of Morse's car a moment earlier had dissolved into a trembling, broken man before her eyes. She knew then that she did hate the job.

And she hated Morse. How could he have not seen the state Robbie was in? How could he have just let him out of the car like that? As though whatever they'd faced that evening hadn't touched him to the quick? How could he not have at the very least called and told her to get the brandy from the cupboard and the kids packed off to her mum's?

But most of all she hated herself because she'd stood by and let it happen to him. Kissed him goodbye and waved him off and when he got fed up and discouraged, she reminded him how much he loved the job and encouraged him to keep at it. And she hated herself because she was going to put him back together and send him right back out to get hurt again. Because, later, when he'd fought his way back from whatever darkness was drowning him this time and he held her quietly in the night, she knew she wouldn't ask him to give it up. He would, she knew. If she asked, for her and for the kids, he'd walk away. As much as she hated the job, she loved him more, and she wouldn't ask that of him. Because as much as she hated his job, he loved it that much more.


	8. Lewis on the Roof with the Candlestick

**Lewis on the Roof with the Candlestick**

"I've ascertained that Lionel Pawlen's death was a suicide," Morse announced bright and early the next morning on the way to Marlow. "He'd taken off his glasses, you see, and suicides always take off their specs before they jump."

"They do?" Lewis questioned. "Where did you get that?"

"I got it off the back of a matchbox," Morse replied seriously enough that Lewis wasn't sure he wasn't pulling his leg. Morse assured him he wasn't. "It happens to be true. If you ever find a suicide with glass smashed in his face, it's murder. Remember that."

Lewis had spent a good portion of the night before wondering if he was cut out to be a detective. After talking it over with Val, he'd decided that he'd come too far to turn back. He'd never be happy if he didn't at least give it a try. And lads like Peter Morris…well, the job needed done or there'd be a lot more of them. He'd set out for work more determined than ever to be a good detective and his answer was earnest when he said, "I will." He was privileged to work with the finest detective around, and he'd do his best to remember everything the man had to teach him-well, about solving crimes anyway. He could do without the music appreciation and grammar lessons, thank you very much.

"Tell us about this Swanpole thing again?" he asked because he'd been a bit preoccupied the day before when Morse had explained it the first time. And Morse told him again what he'd realized while talking to Chief Superintendent Bell the day before: Dr. Starkie and the meaning of names, Swanpole, Swanny, Simon Oliver Pawlen, Swanpole, see? Lewis sniffed and nodded his head. He saw though he wasn't yet quite clear what difference it was going to make in the end. The vicar's brother or just a tramp off the streets, why was Harry Josephs dead twice over? He yawned and looked out the window at the passing scenery and almost nodded off before they were there pawing through Mrs. Josephs things and trying to find out why she, too, was dead.

It was the diary that set Morse off. The blank day with the _SO_ for St. Oswald's that had appeared so frequently in it on other days missing. Lewis saw that the blank day meant that Mrs. Josephs had not planned to attend the service her husband had managed to get himself killed in. The sergeant didn't doubt that that was significant, but he never did quite catch the whole barking dog bit.

And he wasn't quite sure it was significant enough to end up getting them killed.

"Do we really have to go so fast, Sir?" he said as they barreled back towards Oxford.

"Yes," Morse answered. Lewis had often wondered about Morse and the Jag. The car had until today seemed wasted on the man. Not a speed addict, the chief inspector. Lewis himself had been known to keep the pedal to the metal whenever he could get away with it. And the Jag…well, it was a beauty. With a competent driver, it would hold the road and cover the miles. Unfortunately, it was Morse at the wheel, and Lewis had a family to think of!

"I'm sure the bank manager'll still be—"

Morse was having none of it. "Who's left, Lewis?"

"What?"

"Thirteen people at that service. Five of them now dead," Morse explained taking one of his hands off the wheel now and again to emphasize a point which didn't particularly lower Lewis' heart rate. "Six of them have passed on in their tourist coach to Blenheim Palace, Stratford-on-Avon, Bath, Salisbury Cathedral. Who's left?"

"Miss Rawlinson and Simon Pawlen."

"Yes, and one or the other is in mortal danger. If not both," Morse concluded, and Lewis didn't say another word about his hurry for the rest of the trip. In fact, he said nothing at all in the hope that Morse would keep his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel if he weren't being distracted.

They arrived in not quite record time (Lewis had clocked that one on a previous case when Morse had been tired and handed Lewis the keys). Morse dropped him off at the Midland Bank to find out what he could about Reverend Pawlen's bank account. As the Midlands' manager did not drink at Morse's pub, it took Lewis a bit more effort to convince the man he wouldn't be doing any harm in allowing the police to peek at the books for a moment or two. In the end, he got what he'd come for. He usually did. As his mother always said, 'You can catch more flies with honey'.

Morse was nowhere in sight to give him a lift when he came out of the bank. So much for the quick word with the churchwarden about that missing _SO_ on the twenty-sixth in Mrs. Josephs' diary.

Not to bother, Lewis got himself back to the station in short order. Then he typed up an account of their trip for the file, and sorted the expense receipts and all. He knew from experience that even though it wasn't necessarily his responsibility, he might as well just go ahead and do it. Otherwise, Morse was bound to dump it in a crumpled heap on his desk one day and ask him to see to it. Far easier before Morse had the chance to fabricate the mileage log and misfile or lose the receipts. As Marlow was hardly a hop, skip, and a jump away that was soon done, but there was still no sign of Morse.

Lewis sighed. It was quite possible that the chief inspector had went on home without coming back by the station, and here he was waiting around to give him his news—news Lewis well knew Morse was going to want. It wouldn't keep until morning. Lewis looked around for something to keep himself occupied but he'd finished all the busywork. He sat on the corner of his desk, kicking his heels and tossing his keys, and just when he decided he'd waited as long as could be expected before he went home for his supper, Morse appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, there you are, Sir. I got what you wanted."

Morse didn't seem in any hurry for it though. He looked at the keys in Lewis' hand and demanded, "Harry Josephs' keys to the church. Were they in his pockets?" Lewis who had been the one to rummage through the dead man's pockets, and who, as always, had been the one to diligently make sure the evidence forms were correct and complete knew that answer immediately.

Morse's next question was the one that stumped him. "Then where are they?" With that, Morse turned and hurried back down the hall.

Lewis hustled after him. "Don't you want to hear about Pawlen's bank account?"

"Tell me on the way to the church," Morse said, and Lewis reckoned he wouldn't be getting his supper anytime soon.

"So, go ahead, Lewis. What is it you have found out at the Midlands?" Morse asked once they'd set off in the Jag.

"He'd drawn out 30,000 pounds the day before Harry Josephs died," Lewis said and inadvertently almost took his life in his hands. Morse slammed on the brake so quickly that his sergeant came close to hitting the dash before his seat belt caught; he'd been looking in surprise at Lewis instead of the road and almost missed a changing light. Traffic zoomed across mere centimetres from where he'd brought the car to a stop and there were a great deal of honking going on around them, but Morse was oblivious to it all.

"30,000?" he asked incredulously.

"That's what I said."

"Pawlen took out 30,000 in cash?" Morse verified.

"Yes!" Lewis didn't mean to shout, but with cars whizzing around them and all…he thought the chief inspector should think about his driving instead of the state of the vicar's finances.

"Well, that's enough to start a new life," Morse declared. Lewis certainly thought so, although he wasn't so sure about the chief inspector's next statement. "It's certainly enough to kill for." But that led them right back to that why. Why kill Harry Josephs? Lewis, hungry and not at all pleased to be sitting at an intersection with half of Oxford honking at him, was starting to wonder if he even cared.

Finally, Morse started off again, and they reached St. Oswald's without further incidence, thankfully.

"This is the killing ground, Lewis. This is where they all die," Morse said as they walked toward the main entrance of the old church.

Still feeling not the most forgiving to Morse for the wasted afternoon and the harrowinging ride over, Lewis rather petulantly said, "Not Mrs. Josephs."

As usual, his ill-humour never even registered on Morse. "It's where she'll be buried, though," Morse answered. He slowed and held up a hand to stop Lewis. "No, you stay in the car. Keep your eye on the door," he ordered. The chief inspector went off then leaving Lewis standing behind not quite certain he thought Morse's idea was a good one. But, there was nothing for it. He was just the sergeant. If Morse wanted to march into the killing ground all on his lonesome, what could Lewis do about it?

The sergeant went back to the car to keep an eye on the door. He was keen enough, they had a smashing good pair of binoculars he occupied himself with for a time. But, when no one but Miss Rawlinson arrived and the time crept further and further past his suppertime…despite Lewis' diligence to his work, it was a struggle. He glanced through the sports section with one eye peeled on the door, but there was no news in there he wanted to know. A poor showing all around for the lads. He chewed gum and rubbed his eyes and still he was spending more time yawning and fighting to keep his eyes open let alone on the door.

In the end, it wasn't the door he had need to be watching anyway. That was the rooftop, and despite the sleepiness assailing him, he moved fast enough when a movement up there drew his eyes and he saw a silhouette against the sky. Not Morse—definitely not Morse who would surely never set foot up there again. Not Rawlinson—a man, certainly. A man who had no business on the tower roof. Lewis was out of the car and running to investigate before he heard Morse's muffled voice coming from above.

Morse was on the roof, and there was only one thing that his sergeant could think of that would lure him there. The killer. The man he'd seen was the killer; Swanpole, Morse's long lost tramp. He dashed towards the stairwell.

Overhead there was a wild yell followed by muffled cries and the scrambling sounds of a struggle. He took the stairs two at a time, and as he passed the bells he looked around and snatched up the first thing that came to hand…a candlestick, a heavy candlestick. Lewis in the bell room with the candlestick then, he thought though he didn't let the ludicrous idea slow him down. The chief inspector needed him.

He burst through the low door onto the rooftop and saw their killer had Morse down, his hands around the chief inspector's neck, Morse's feet kicking desperately…

He'd grabbed the candlestick, and he'd meant to use it if it came to it. A psychopath on a rooftop. He hadn't wanted to go up there without anything to level the playing field, but…he hadn't thought through just what he'd do with that candlestick, brandish it like an unspoken threat, perhaps. Certainly, he hadn't planned on bashing it as hard as he could over the back of the man. He hadn't known he had it in him.

Still, as the assailant let lose of Morse and turned with wild, mad eyes at Lewis, the sergeant wasn't sorry. For a moment, it looked like the man would be on Lewis next. Lewis braced himself for the blow; he tightened his grip on the candlestick and set his feet, but the madness in the man's eyes faded to surprise…Swanpole had thought himself invincible. He'd never reckoned on a Geordie lad with a serious drive to defend Morse, and it was his undoing.

Swanpole was far from invincible; he staggered, almost going down but managing to stay up. He fought to get his feet under him, to find his footing; in the process he staggered back, away from Lewis; back to the balustrade, his foot caught on the in-cut lower jag of the wall; and without a sound he went over…out into the void and down.

Lewis had watched him stumble back but it had all been so fast and unexpected. Swanpole was gone before Lewis even thought to put out a steadying hand let alone dash forward and catch the man before he went over. Instead, he stood there in numb horror and heard the sound a body makes hitting the pavement and knew it was his blow that had sent the man staggering into the abyss.

Morse was groaning, fighting for air behind him. Lewis turned to see that the chief inspector was still down, pale and limp, on the sloped roof. Miss Rawlinson—where had she been? Lewis wondered inconsequentially—coming from the stairwell to him.

Fighting for some degree of normality, Lewis asked, "You all right, Sir?" But he didn't move to the chief inspector. It would be up to Miss Rawlinson to do that. Lewis was rooted where he stood; the candlestick still heavy in hand.

"I don't know yet," Morse managed to gasp out as Miss Rawlinson reached him. Lewis watched her go down beside the chief inspector and help him to a sit; as though by raising Morse she also raised Lewis' feet, he finally found himself able to move. There was something about the two of them there on the roof that shut Lewis out. He left Morse to her care and headed down to once again make the call.

Behind him, he heard Miss Rawlinson ask, "Are you all right?" and Morse's answer, "I am now."

And then there was, yet again, all the busy work that followed a violent end to attend to, and the arrest of Miss Rawlinson for being an accessory to murder, and Max's body-side comments to endure.

"If they don't take Morse off this case in double-quick time, we're going to need a new churchyard. This is number five, isn't it?"

"Six."

"Really. Must be something of a record for Oxford."

And then the surprising news (surprising to Lewis anyway, though Morse seemed unfazed when he told it) that the body lying on the pavement, their last victim, was actually their first, Harry Josephs. That first murder had all been just an act, from the service to the identity of the body; the whole lot of them had been in on it—well, not the boy, surely. But the rest of them, they'd all colluded to free the vicar from his ne'er-do-well brother once and for all and then they'd all, one by one, died for it.


	9. Torn Asunder

**Torn Asunder**

Val had been worried about him all day. He'd seemed fine when he'd left in the morning. But she hadn't been so sure he'd gotten past the trauma of the day before, even though he'd seemed as right as rain when he kissed her goodbye and went off to Marlow with Morse. And, she'd been even less sure when she read in the paper about the boy's body found at St. Oswald's.

"There's more dead," he'd told her in the night, but that had been all he'd said. And in accordance with Inspector Grave's instructions, she hadn't asked for any more than he'd been willing to tell her. But three more deaths and one a boy…he wouldn't be all right, would he? No wonder he came home in such a state. And she'd sent him back out to it, hadn't she?

Still, she thought. That would be the end of…Morse would have it all sewn up by now. Robbie'd be fine. He always—only then her husband reached back into the car and drew out a new bottle of brandy.

She'd been fixing him tea laced with brandy all of their adult lives, but he'd never, not even once in all those years, asked for it, never complained when she put the bottle back in the cupboard and handed him his tea without, never made a single mention of it. Always, she'd been the one to make sure there was a bottle in the cupboard, the one to work the expense out of the household budget. What did it mean, how bad could it be that he was walking in with that bottle?

She turned from the window to watch him come down the hallway to find her. She swallowed hard and prayed. And then he was standing before her and holding out the bottle and only then did she think she should have put the kettle on. She searched his face. He looked all right as far as that went, not shaky or pale. Wordlessly, she accepted the bottle and set it on the counter. There was a paperback copy of _Waiting for Godot _sticking from his pocket which he took out and looked over as though wondering where it had come from. He gave a small shake to his head as though it wasn't worth the effort and handed it over to her as well.

He turned away from her searching gaze, looked about the kitchen, and said, "There's that shelf to hang in the corner. I got all busy and forgot, didn't I? Perhaps, I'll get to it tonight, like. Morse has gone off the beer again…twice that makes it. And the case is closed. Except for the paperwork, of course. It was a right mess…not sure I've quite got it all straight yet…"

His voice was steady enough. Maybe someone had given him the brandy. Maybe it didn't mean anything. She hoped that was it, but…she didn't believe it. It was too close on the heels of last night when the walls had all come crashing down—maybe that was the reason for the bottle. He quite well might think he'd emptied one over this case already and knew things were a bit tight at the moment for her to easily replace it.

It should have been a simple enough thing to open her mouth and ask, "What's this about then?" when he'd handed it to her. But it hadn't been then and it wasn't any easier now. She willed him to keep talking, to hold on to whatever semblance of control he'd clung to in order to finish out his day, to do his job when something dreadful must have happened sometime along the way. She didn't think she could survive whatever dark waters were about to engulf them because his words had died out and in the quiet following them there was a look in his face she'd never seen before. And she knew it was going to be bad.

She bit her lip and breathed out an almost silent, 'Robbie'. He crumpled into her arms then, buried his head against her, and they both shook with the force of his weeping.

Someone should have phoned, someone should have warned her, someone should have thought to bring him home. She'd have had a cuppa ready then, instead of the kettle standing empty and cold. She would have called someone to come for their children then, instead of them standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and frightened at the sight of their father weeping in her arms.

"A chair, Lynnie," she told her daughter, fighting to sound calm. "Bring a chair for your dad, won't you?" Because he was trembling against her and she was afraid he was going to go down and she'd never be able to get him up if he did. "Go on, luv," she encouraged when the little girl hesitated. "As quick as you like."

Lynnie scurried to the table; pulled out not the nearest chair, but her dad's chair out and dragged it around the others to bring it to them. "That's a girl," she told her as she eased Robbie down into it. He clutched her to him, kept his face buried into her, and she pulled him close and rubbed his bowed head. "I'm here, Robbie," she told him. "I'm not going anywhere." To her frightened daughter, she said, "I think, luv, that you might put the kettle on…as Mum's right here. And Kennie bring Mummie the phone, eh?"

Touching the cooker, messing about with the phone, two definite no-no's her children weren't quite sure they could break even with her there coaxing them. But, in the end, her mum was called and on her way to collect the kids, and Val was able to press a steaming cup of brandy-laced tea into his hands.

He raised his head and looked at her then. "It's got a drop," she told him. "Drink it down, it'll do you good."

"Yeah," he said, his voice soft and harsh and pained, but he didn't raise the cup to his mouth.

"Shall, I?" she asked because she'd brought a cup to his mouth before when he'd been bad, but…he'd never seemed aware of it. This…acknowledgement of his hurt, this awareness that he was bad off—it was new territory, and she was afraid at any moment she'd take a wrong step and he'd go plunging down into the abyss. He didn't answer and she moved to put her hand over his to raise the cup for him.

He shook his head then and put a still-less-than-steady hand over hers. He looked up at her beseechingly and opened his mouth, and there was something in that look that frightened her all over again. She looked away and saw the kids, back in the doorway, staring open-eyed, and whatever he was going to say wasn't for them to hear.

"You two, Gram will be here any minute for you. Off you go to fetch your things…toothbrush, your nightclothes, something for tomorrow, your luvvies, all the things we take when we go to Newcastle, Lynnie. Help your brother." The poor frightened tykes had moved off and then it was only them.

"Tell me now, Robbie," she said though she thought the last thing she wanted to do was hear what he had to say. No. No matter how bad what he had to say was, he was alive and unharmed and there was a lot that could be worse than what he had to say.

"I…I think I killed a man today, Pet," he told her and what could she say to that? "Harry Josephs, he was. A murderer. And he would have killed Morse if I wouldn't have been there. But…I hit him. With the candlestick. On the roof…I didn't mean to kill him! I just wanted him to leave off hurting Morse. But, he stood up. And he couldn't get his feet under him. Because I'd hit him, you see…and he, uh, he went over. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't." He finished in a harsh whisper, "And he died."

He stared at her as though he expected her to…what? Step back from him in horror? Condemn him? Pronounce him a murderer? "I think I killed a man today, Pet," he'd started, and she thought that was what this was all about; the bottle, the weeping, the shaking. He'd always meant to be a copper…not just any copper. A _good_ copper. But, today…he'd lost faith in himself. Perhaps, perhaps he'd even thought about pulling the man off of his Morse and throwing him over the side. Perhaps he had. He was human, her Robbie. But. He wouldn't have done. Because even if right now he wasn't so sure of it, he was a good man.

She pushed the hair back from his eyes, smiled at him, and fought to keep her voice steady as she said, "Drink your tea, Robbie. Before it's cold."

"Lass?" he asked with a waver in his voice.

"I'm not going to do it, Robbie," she told. "I'm not going to even honor what you're thinking with a denial. I'm not…you're a good man, Robbie Lewis, and you're not what you're afraid. I promise you that."

"Promise?" he asked her and the plea in his voice broke her heart. Oh, Robbie.

She stepped back from him, swallowed the lump in her throat, and forced herself to say, "Now drink your tea and shift yourself before I have to call one of your mates to help me. Bed or bath, makes me no never mind." Her matter-of-factness reached him and gave him a thin thread of normality to cling to. When his whole world was crumbling, he could count on his Val to see him right. In the face of the day's events perhaps that didn't seem like much, but it was everything.


	10. Afterword

_Afterword:_

_Not part of the story at all. Just a rather-pretentious sounding musing to get me from where I wanted to be in the writing of this story to where I had to be to actually get it down. I turned it into an essay and included it here in case I wasn't the only one having trouble with the transition from The Jericho Case to St. Oswald's._

In our house, when the name _Kevin Whately _appears on the screen we cheer: on _Lewis_ because he's our hero (and they tend to move his opening appearances farther and farther back until we've begun to fear that he's been unavoidably detained and will never get there); but on _Morse _we cheer with delight in knowing we'll soon be seeing an old friend and with relief. _Ah, good,_ we think, _that's all right then. No matter what poor, old Morse faces tonight, Lewis will be there. He'll see to him no matter how bad it gets._ He's a different kind of hero on _Morse, _the quiet, unsung one always in the background and never brought sharply into focus.

Oh, sometimes the camera will turn its eye towards him, and if we look quickly and hard enough we'll see him. Not the out-of-focus, too good to be true, ever-optimistic, ever-loyal, happy-go-lucky Sergeant Lewis we know him as, but the real man. The one who is just as tortured, just as perplexed, just as human as _Morse _himself. He's there gazing in horror as Harry Josephs falls into the abyss; clutching numbly to a baby on the top of a staircase; watching helplessly as Morse makes a very good attempt at destroying himself, a car salesman, and Lewis' belief in him all in one whack; pacing in a lay-by with a damning cassette in his hand; and he's there in the woods.

But, over all, we see Sergeant Lewis not as he is, but as Morse sees him, as Morse needs to see him: somewhat idealistically, untouched by the horrors that eat away at Morse himself. It is, for the egocentric Morse, perhaps the only way he can see him.

The camera comes in for a close look of Morse as he grapples with the hard-hitting, bitter issues of the episode, but what of Lewis? He's going on his merry way as though nothing even happened. As Morse, weighed down by guilts, regrets, hurts, and sorrows, wishes he were able to do and can't. And, if that seems to be an impossibility considering whatever the show has just put the pair of them through…it is. Can Lewis, with children of his own at home, dig up the body of a boy and wander off home for a quiet evening of telly? Can he watch a man stumble off a rooftop and not feel some degree of guilt that he struck the blow to unbalance him or that he never reached out a steadying hand? Hardly. But, Morse, drowning in his own dilemmas, looks over and sees only his happy-go-lucky sergeant…a man he wishes he could be, a man he needs to believe in if he is to carry on. And so, for the most part, Lewis' struggles go on off-camera, out of Morse's sight.

We're so used to seeing him through Morse's eyes that when events are so horrifying that Lewis can't remain untouched and he's forced to remain on-screen, it's still Morse we see. We know the picture is skewed, we feel it, we see it…Morse, sitting shaken and shattered because he'd 'killed' Mrs. Michaels; Lewis standing, being supportive, coming up with an encouraging remark and managing to bring a slight smile to the inspector's haunted features…and somewhere there's a big _'What?'_ echoing through us because we know the picture is wrong. The sergeant was the one in peril, the one who needs the support, the one in need. And the only way he has to show his distress is to stand there picking Michaels' blood from his hands in a macabre and silent plea for the help he desperately needs. A plea that goes unanswered.

Morse doesn't hear it, doesn't see it, and _neither do we_. Do we really think Lewis can't smell the blood on him, feel its hardening tackiness against him? Do we really believe his insides aren't melting within him, his mind racing in a thousand different directions—anywhere but where he's just come—in a desperate bid to keep some control? Do we really think he is only picking at that blood for something to do while he waits for Morse to be ready to head off for a pint? Of course not. But, like Morse, we choose to keep the focus softened and hold onto our picture of the laughing, happy-go-lucky sergeant.

Lionel Pawlen lies sprawled grotesquely over Ruth Rawlinson's bicycle, Morse holds a weeping Rawlinson, but Lewis stands in the background. We see Morse alone, in the dark, fighting his demons, but where is Lewis? Back at the station digging up the info on the Pawlen brothers, business as usual, ever-resilient; and we, along with Morse, see this as perfectly normal behaviour.

Where else would he have been, what else would he have been doing? Surely, not fighting the same demons. No, surely not, because as Morse is incapable of dealing with the horrors of the job he can't look up and see Lewis has the same struggles as well. He doesn't dare. So the sergeant stays in the background, slightly out-of-focus, seen though a softened lens, a romanticized ideal Morse clings to as a life-line. Proof that life goes on, and that it is worth living.

And then, Morse is gone. Granted, in the end, a natural death. His struggles are over, but his sergeant? He's not even allowed to be there at Morse's side, where's he's always been, where he deserves to be. And, suddenly, we no longer have Morse's idealized eyes to see his sergeant through. And only then do we truly see the focus sharpen on him, or perhaps his pain is so great that there isn't a lens capable of softening the scene enough to blunt his loss. All the tears we've cried with Morse, but it's only then that we weep for Lewis, only then when he steps from the darkened room into the light beyond the door do we truly see the man he is—the man he's always been if we'd only seen.

I love Sergeant Lewis. I love watching him through Morse's eyes, the young, laughing optimist. And I love watching through that harder, sharper lens and seeing that there had to be much more going on back there that we didn't see…

But, when I set out to write the Sergeant Lewis stories, it was the happy-go-lucky, ever loyal sergeant whose eyes I wanted to show Morse through. Like the programme itself, I wanted Lewis to stay too-good-to-be-true; a testimony to life's goodness and joys; a promise that even surrounded by evil good does exist; and that life's rough patches don't have to really touch us.

It seemed to work all right for _What the Sergeant Saw: The Jericho Case_; but _St. Oswalds_…no matter how hard I tried or how long, I just couldn't make it _live_. And then one night, beating my head once more against my inability to make it come together, Reverend Pawlen came plummeting down and landed with a horrifying splat on Ruth Rawlinson's bicycle…and I knew there was no way I could keep seeing Lewis through Morse's eyes if the story was to _live._ Because life has to touch even the best of us, even those who stand off-screen and try to spare us that painful knowledge.

I knew all of that long before I started to write these stories, but I hadn't want to bring it out. I wanted to keep them light and enjoy looking back on Sergeant Lewis as I had seen him before the first time I watched the _Remorseful Day._ I thought_ Inspector Lewis suffers enough for any man; let's keep Sergeant Lewis safe from all of that_.

Unfortunately, when I climbed into his head to see Morse through his sergeant's eyes…I found it was impossible for me to write anything remotely worth reading if Lewis could see that body plummeting down on them and head happily back to the station to dig up what he could on the Pawlen brothers. No matter how Morse and I might wish it wasn't so, Lewis had to be touched somehow. The blinders had to come off; Lewis had to be allowed to be a man in his own right and not just the loyal sidekick ever at our hero's side.

I regret that. But, for me at least, it was the only way to make the story _live_. And that I don't regret.


End file.
